


Some Nights

by jeanralphio



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanralphio/pseuds/jeanralphio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gatsby is a 37-year-old college Psychology professor in New York City, Tom is the dean of the school, Daisy is his wife and a part-time professor, and Nick is a 21-year-old part-time student who works for a bike messenger company during most of the day. Nick skips Gatsby's class all the time, but when Gatsby almost ran him over on his bike once, took him home, and sort of slept with him on a whim, the two have been seeing quite a bit of each other.</p><p>Before anyone asks I have a lot of Gatsby AUs and this is the first of many</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Nights

Ever since the night he nearly killed me with his car, Gatsby had been paying a lot more attention to me. He had taken to stopping me as I biked away from campus, leaning out of his car window and offering me a ride. He would always insist, and we would always end up back at his apartment. 

From time to time I wondered if those times meant anything to him. We would never talk about anything that happened while I was there - it just happened. Before and after we acted like nothing had gone on, and would just chat like we were casual friends. Still, I may have been afraid to mention our trysts outright for fear that they might stop happening. As much as he seemed not to want to mention them, I'd gotten used to sleeping with Gatsby and would have been very disappointed if we stopped.

I thought briefly that there might be another person involved. I hated the idea of being just a distraction to Gatsby, but sometimes when I saw him around other people at school, I would get irrationally jealous. I had a bad habit of walking into his classroom and purposefully asking for something right as he was talking to another student or professor. Half of them probably thought I was a particularly clingy TA. 

The dean's wife, Daisy Buchanan, was a particular annoyance. I liked her enough on her own, but when I found her standing with Gatsby, laughing gaily at something stupid one of them had just said, I grew increasingly suspicious. Especially since these days, finding them together was not an uncommon occurrence. 

One night, when he was sitting in bed, reading, I confronted him about it.

"What do you think of Daisy Buchanan?" It was more of a demand than a question.

Gatsby said nothing. I was laying beside him, mostly naked, head nestled in a pillow with the intention of sleeping but with too much on my mind. His hand, which had been combing through my hair absentmindedly, stopped. I wasn't sure this was a good sign.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully. I felt a pang of anger. He was clearly avoiding the question.

I pressed further. "Just, what do you think of her? Do you like her? Dislike her?"

He paused before resuming his attention to my hair. "She's a nice enough woman," he answered finally. There was an edge to his voice, like he was barely disguising some other meaning behind his words. I stayed silent, waiting for him to say anything more. He didn't. He was waiting to see if I was satisfied with his answer.

I wasn't satisfied, and I knew it, but maybe the futile hope that what I feared might not be true kept me from inquiring any further. I rolled over and sat up, moving to straddle Gatsby's legs with my knees. I put my arms around his neck and buried my face in them, half-touching the side of his face. I heard him sigh as he closed his book, placing it back on the night-stand, and moving to rub the small of my back with his free hand.

"It's been a long day," he relinquished. It hadn't, really. It had been a fairly normal day. I sensed he was just trying to change the subject. "I'm glad you're here."

It wasn't like I had turned him down on coming over in the past, either. Sometimes I objected, but mostly out of politeness. These days, I would do anything to spend a quiet night with Gatsby instead of returning to my tiny, crowded apartment.

His thumb ran along the line of my jaw and I sat up a little, enough for him to stroke the side of my face and reach forward for a kiss. His lips were always warm, but sort of dry, like he hadn't been drinking anything for the past hour. I tend to lick my lips when I'm stressed, or so he's told me. Mine are significantly nicer to kiss. 

Generally, in moments like these, Gatsby would instigate something - sometimes when I was sitting on his couch, sometimes lying in bed, sometimes even in the shower. He would lean over and put an arm around my midsection, kissing me gently to ask if I was in the mood. I pretty much always was.

But tonight, neither of us really felt the need to instigate. 

He broke away, letting me leave a final peck on his lips before smiling and pulling me from my straddle and on top of him. He reached over to the night-stand to switch off the light, laying back on the cool sheets in the darkness of his room. I laid my ear over his breast and moved my hand over his right nipple, feeling his heartbeat. He was unbearably warm, but I didn't want to move.

"Hey," I croaked. He hummed a little before answering, fingers toying with my hair again.

"Yeah?" He breathed. He sounded tired.

"I - "

My words were lost somewhere in my mouth as they tried to escape. My breath hitched in frustration, but I just tightened my hold around his torso and nosed into his neck.

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Nick," I heard, and wondered for a tremendous, hopeful moment if he might say what I had failed to. But then the moment was gone, and I felt him touch the nape of my neck with his fingertips, and he just repeated my name. "Nick."

Tomorrow, I would wake up earlier than him, go to work until the afternoon, then barge in on him talking to some student only to wait for him inevitably to invite me home. And in that moment, I wished, for the first time, that I could call it my home, too.


End file.
